Subtext
by BravoKate
Summary: The funeral is over and her killer has been brought down, but Kate is still dead. Tony's not sure how much longer he can keep it together.


**Disclaimer: **NCIS does not belong to me. No copyright infringement is intended.

**A/N: **Takes place fairly soon after "Kill Ari."

* * *

"What happened to your hand, DiNozzo?" Gibbs's voice is calm. Casual, even. Deceptively so. Tony doesn't even have to look at his boss's face to know that those piercing blue eyes are trained on him, boring into him as only Gibbs can do. All it takes is one glance, and Tony knows the question is a rhetorical one.

He answers it anyway. "Hit it on the edge of my shower, Boss. Turns out you should really turn your bathroom light on when you get up in the middle of the night."

Gibbs is just _looking _at him. Tony shrugs a little, and cracks what is supposed to be a slightly sheepish grin, but comes out more like a grimace. Why does his boss have to be so damned perceptive? Nobody at Philly, or Baltimore, or Peoria would even have blinked at his explanation, let alone thought to challenge it. He forces himself to meet Gibbs's gaze, trying desperately not to think about the three fist-sized holes in the wall of his apartment.

XXXXXXXXXX

It had been nearly two in the morning when he'd finally let himself into his apartment. After the flight home from Indiana, the team had gone out for drinks. He had been grateful that it didn't dissolve into some kind of weepy pseudo-therapy session. There had been no sappy speeches, no "what we remember about Kate" reminiscing, and –thank God – no murmured platitudes. No one had tried to tell him that it had happened for a reason. No one had said that at least she was at peace. In fact, no one had said much at all.

They had sat or stood together, as Tony's world had become increasingly hazy, and he had been grateful for their presence. But they couldn't stay there forever. As much as Tony would have been happy to simply keep drinking until he passed out under the table somewhere, the more responsible members of the team had begun to gather their things and head towards the door.

Gibbs had offered to drive him home, somewhat ironically since Gibbs had been easily as drunk as he was, but Tony had refused the offer. The last thing he'd wanted was to sit in a silent car with his boss, the memory of Kate hovering between them.

Instead, Tony had called a cab, and somehow he must have been coherent enough to give the driver his address and pay for his fare. He's not real clear on that part of the night. But somehow, he had made it home – if you can really call an apartment like his "home" – without incident.

XXXXXXXXXX

"Your shower. Really." Gibbs drags the last word out so much that it's practically a drawl, heavy with skepticism and sarcasm both.

Tony jumps. He'd almost forgotten that Gibbs was there. Part of him just wants to turn on his heel and leave. He knows full well that his boss doesn't believe him, so really, what's the point of going through this dance? But whether out of habit or some lingering sense of stubbornness, Tony isn't about to admit that he's been lying. "Yeah." He tries not to sound defensive, or challenging, and ends up sounding both.

"Let me see." Before Tony can answer, his boss's large, calloused hand wraps around his injured one, unwinding the inexpertly-wrapped bandage. With a gentleness Tony wouldn't have thought possible, Gibbs takes his hand and turns it over, carefully examining the bruised, swollen knuckles and shredded skin.

XXXXXXXXXX

It had hurt, the first time he had put his fist through the wall. It hadn't been a half-assed temper tantrum punch, but a full-strength strike fueled by the grief and the rage that had threatened to consume him.

Tony had stood in the middle of his living room for what felt like hours, just staring. Trying not to think. Trying not to remember. But he hadn't been able to get the image of her out of his head. He hadn't been able to remember what her face had been like at that awful moment, and for some reason he couldn't really have explained, that had bothered him. Just a moment before, he knew, she had been smiling. Laughing in relief and triumph. Had she still been smiling when the bullet had come? Had she had time to look surprised? Had there been a hint of pain in her expression, right at the very end?

Tony hadn't been able to remember, and it had driven him crazy. All he had been able to think about was the warm spray of her blood on his face, the horrible timing of the shot that had brought his emotions from one extreme to the other, and the bitter irony of her last words.

Tony has never been a big fan of irony.

XXXXXXXXXX

For a long moment, Gibbs doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. The look he is giving Tony says it all. It's a look that tells Tony his boss hadn't needed to see the abrasions to know that his injuries had nothing to do with stumbling around in the dark. In fact, he suspects Gibbs knows exactly what happened, and has probably known all along.

There's compassion in that look, and something else. Understanding. So much understanding, in fact, that Tony finds himself thinking that maybe Gibbs has put his fist through a wall a time or two, himself. Maybe he should check for holes, the next time he's at his boss's house.

"You should have Ducky check this out," Gibbs finally says, still in that same quiet tone.

"I'm fine, Boss." The last thing Tony wants is Ducky poking and prodding and analyzing him. He knows the ME well enough to be sure there'd be more to his examination that just checking out his hand, and at this point, he's really not up to that. Gibbs gives him a look, but doesn't press the matter, a fact for which Tony is grateful.

And maybe he deserves that skeptical raised eyebrow. Because whatever he just told his boss, Tony's not actually sure that he _is _fine. In fact, he's pretty sure that he isn't.

XXXXXXXXXX

Tony had stood there, squeezing his eyes shut tight like a child trying to block out the remnants of a nightmare, trying not to think. But no matter what he had done, the image of his partner with a walnut-sized hole in her head had refused to go away.

She's _gone,_ he had told himself fiercely. Damn it, the funeral was even over. Weren't funerals supposed to give you closure, or something? Well, Tony hadn't felt _closed. _As a matter of fact, he had felt about as ripped open as it was possible to be. Raw. Exposed. Empty.

And then the next thing he knew he had somehow crossed the room, and his hand had exploded in pain, white-hot at first and then dull and throbbing. And he had looked at the hole in his newly-painted wall, and with a sense of complete detachment, added another. And then another. And then his wall had been stained with tiny droplets of blood and his head was exploding with pain signals and his hand was in agony. He was hot and sweaty and dizzy, and before he really knew what was happening he was curled into a ball on his floor.

But even through all that, there had been one coherent idea in his mind. For some unknown amount of time that had felt like hours but had probably only been minutes, he had been awake and conscious. And he hadn't thought about Kate.

XXXXXXXXXX

Gibbs is still just _staring _at him. "You hit your hand on your shower, Tony?" he asks pointedly, and the question could have been snide and sarcastic but instead his voice sounds almost gentle.

This time, it's not hard for Tony to meet his boss's eyes. "Yeah, Boss. I did."

Gibbs nods slowly, and Tony has a feeling they've just had some kind of deep communication that goes way beyond what either of them have actually said. And he doesn't fully understand it, can't really put it into words, but somehow he thinks he gets the gist of it. And that should be enough. It _should _be.

But it isn't. Because no matter what either of them says or does, Kate's still dead. And as long as that's true, nothing can be quite right again. Because Kate is dead, and it's not freakin' _fair! _

And life's _not _fair. Tony knows that. He's not an idiot, and he's not a child, and after spending his entire adult life in law enforcement, he's sure as hell not naïve. Life's not fair. He doesn't need anyone to tell him that. The good die young, rapists and murderers walk. Embezzlers retire somewhere warm and tropical while single mothers freeze in the streets. Tony isn't stupid. He knows how life works.

But none of that matters. Kate's dead, and life's not fair, but it _should _be, and he wants it to be, and he doesn't know where to go from here. He opens his mouth, and he doesn't know whether it's to breathe or to scream, but he only stops when he feels strong arms wrap around him.

His boss is pulling him into a hug, fierce and protective in the way that only a former Marine can be, and Tony buries his face in Gibbs's neck and lets his boss hold him and tries not to shatter. He practically melts into the embrace, the feeling that Gibbs is literally holding him together, and he starts to think that maybe, just maybe, he might be okay after all.

* * *

**A/N: **Feedback is more than welcome. I'd love to hear from you!


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